I Didn't Do No Wrong
by tomato-greens
Summary: A monologue for eighthgrade English. Mayella, on the night Bob is killed.


An English project. Acted it out, got a 100. Woot-woot.

_--_

_(Mayella Ewell is not a delicate creature, but can act like one. Feel free to move _

_accordingly. Please forgive her language.)_

MAYELLA

I didn't do nothin', y'hear?

So maybe Tom Robinson didn' hurt me: I didn' want to charge him, anyway. Pa tol' me to, an' you don't go against him when he's--when he's not that tolerable. I've tried 'afore an' I don't reckon I'll try again. 'Specially not over some stupid nigger, ain't worth nothin', they ain't. He ran like a baby when my pa came in, just like the rest of 'em. Too scared to face anyone better 'n 'em.

Yeah, an' maybe my pa did hurt me a little bit that day. It ain't like he never done it 'afore, anyhow. It don't count as hurtin'. He's my pa, he's allowed.

They was all makin' fun a me, in that courtroom. Mr. Finch especially, with his 'fine manners'--right! No one ever fine mannered me, why should he, town man that he is? I ain't worth it; been tol' that often enough, don't see why it ain't true. Seems it, most times. He was mockin' me, he was, he was! Just 'cause I ain't up to his fancy standards, even though I can read n' write just as well as he can. Horrible man, workin' over my pa to say he was left-handed, don't matter if he was left-handed or not. Hurts just the same, an' there ain't nothin' they can do about it, anyway, don't see why they try.

Tom Robinson was nice, that's all! I never kissed nobody 'afore, not by myself, an' I figgered it may as well be someone was nice t'me. I wasn't s'posed to, I know, but I figgered--well, he was nice, maybe he'd kiss me back. Maybe fer once I'd found someone who'd like me, like me, not touch me or nothin'. Like me. An' he coulda showed it, coulda kissed me, but he, he was too _nice_ an' respectable an' then my pa came and it went to nothin' anyway.

'Cause he was a coward, _just like_ _ever'body else._

Here was I, stupid as always, thinkin' he'd stand up fer me against my pa. No one stands up to my pa; most people don't notice him enough to do it. I think that what bothers him most, Papa. He's too small.

I don't take after him so much, big an' stocky like I am. Maybe that's why he likes--doing things to me so much. Gives him power over _somethin_', somethin' almost bigger 'n him at that. An' even though I liked Tom, I guess I take more after my pa than I realized at first--gotta have somethin' lower 'n you to make you feel like anythin'. Tom--he's black. He's always gonna be lower 'n me no matter what I may do wrong, an' there's jus' some indescribable feelin', knowin' that.

That's one thing neither a us liked about bein' up there with them lawyers an' all, I think. We didn' talk 'bout it; talk, right, us talk. Hardly ever talk to anybody but myself, one reason I liked Tom so much, but that's aside the fact. Didn't have no power, not at all, with Mr. Gilmer so high-an'-mighty, an' Mr. Finch so, so, I d'know, _nice_. I can't stand nice people. They never mean it. Or if they do, they never follow up on their promises.

See? Tom Robinson all over again. Dumb nigger.

Pa didn't have no power up there, neither. When we got home he sent t'others out an' hurt me, all alone. Usually they go out of their own accord, 'cause who wants to see somethin' like that? Like when he beats someone else, sure as all goodness _I _ain't watchin'. Each man fer himself, in our home. Works out fine. You bear your own burden. Not worth it carryin' others', too, 'cause sure they ain't gonna help you. No one ever does. They like havin' someone lower 'n 'em, too.

So he sent 'em out special, he said, to teach me my lesson. Tom Robinson got sent to jail, didn't he? I did my part! I did, I didn't mean to let it slip about the whiskey! It's not like no one knew 'bout it, anyway, you always hear the gossip-gossip-gossip, e'en when you ain't part a nothin'. It does that, talk, wind away 'round the whole town, no matter where you live. If it ain't the whites, it's the nigger-nest down the way. Know too much for their own good, Negroes. Don't know when to shut up an' don't know when they shouldn't.

I guess I don't, neither. Else I wouldn't be here, would I, defendin' myself against somethin' that just ain't defendable. Sittin' in a corner, hopin' Pa's too drunk to come in.

I just hope to all's left holy he ain't comin' back. He went off with the switchblade he stole offa someone else couple years 'go. No way we'd find somethin' like that in the dump, huh. Maybe he's finally done somethin'--somethin' bad enough to get him away from here.

Please, God, if you're actually there.

I didn't do no wrong. Don't punish me now.


End file.
